Girl
by thecagedstarkdove
Summary: When I was younger, my mother always told me that I was like a masterpiece; every new adventure was another lick of paint to be added to the rough canvas. All the mistakes you make are a reflection on who you are. Paint a masterpiece, but blend it together because nobody likes to see how fucked up it is underneath it all. Heeter fanfic. Romance, friendship. College in a nutshell.
1. Misery

**Author's Note: Daily events. I don't know whether or not I'm going to write all of these from Skeeter's hand. It may be a scattered thing. Each chapter will vary in length, but I don't think any one will be particularly long. This one will be far shorter than the rest.**

**This story supports relationship between one "Skeeter" Phelan and a Miss Hillary Walters. Both girls are young and in college. This will be a bit AU, because I don't think I'm going to have them going to Ole Miss. It's just my thoughts on their relationship. I'll try my best to keep all characters the same as in the film (and or book). If you don't like it, scat cat. We don't need your negativity here.**

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When I was younger, my mother always told me that I was like a masterpiece; every new adventure was another lick of paint to be added to the rough canvas. Throughout your life you have certain things that happen, nights you regret, months, years, time wasted that you wish you could take back. All the mistakes you make are a reflection on who you are. You need to hide the brushstrokes. Paint a masterpiece, but blend it together because nobody likes to see how fucked up it is underneath it all.

This isn't a story about how love is bad, or about how girls are evil. It's something that happened to me, my life with her. Not with her, with her, just the time I spent being in her presence. The things I felt, the shit that pissed me off, the jokes that made me laugh.

Nobodies life is all thrills. Most days, as you probably know, are spent inside. And that was how it was throughout high school. Nothing too farfetched ever happened. The people were laid back and fine, but no significant friendships were made. I passed easy enough and my parents always congratulated be on my outstanding marks. Mostly, I devoted my time to reading. I made a game out of finding ways to entertain myself, but nothing really worked. I dabbled in art and rode bicycles. But no matter how hard I tried, there always seemed to be something missing.

In college I stopped trying to define happiness because I finally knew what it was. And it wasn't the jolt of writing (which is what I went to college to become, a writer) and it wasn't drugs (which all my friends were usually wasted on). It was one girl and one girl only.

She changed my world for the better, well, I suppose she did. I still don't even know what we are. The definition of our relationship is lost somewhere out there. She probably wouldn't want me to put a label on it. If I did, it probably wouldn't satisfy her. Confused lovers? Misguided girls?

I'll let you choose, Hillary. You usually take control of everything, anyway.


	2. Pretty Girl From Nowhere

I saw her for the first time as I rushed to my lessons, completely late. My hair was a tangled mess, per usual. The curly locks hooked together, creating knots that would surely consume the most durable of combs. My glasses were pushed to the tip of my nose, threatening to fall and the dress which hung from my body didn't fit. A gift that my mother had given to me to start of the new term. Thank you, mom. An insecure girl, the product of her mother's awful and embarrassing presents. The shoes that I work clunked against the cracked pavement. They were gaudy and all around unappealing.

Heels clicked somewhere nearby and I looked up, intent on finding the source. Nobody was really out. I found it peculiar that a girl would be walking towards the direction of the dormitory building this early in the morning. Her steps were relaxed and not at all quick. She didn't seem to be tardy to class, but maybe she was. Maybe she didn't care, or maybe she just wanted to appear nonchalant. I didn't know then and I don't know now. A lot of things about that girl in particular confuse me.

The moment my eyes landed on her I felt the air leave my lungs. It wasn't a feeling I had experienced before, and I don't believe I ever will again. She was looking forward, not paying any mind to me. Books were clutched tightly against her chest and the white dress she wore blew back in the wind, showing her legs. She had rosy cheeks and the bridge of her nose was freckled prettily from the heat of the summer sun. Auburn locks were pulled back in a long pony that flicked from side to side with each step she took. Red pumps hugged her feet and the click against the tar emphasized how slow she was moving. Her blue eyes were intently focused on the building ahead. Her plump lips appeared to be glossed and she had a small cleft chin which was hardly noticeable unless you were looking as intently as I was.

Awestruck and lovesick, I watched her pass by me. All I could think of was that I would do anything to know her. The way that she looked, the way that her upturned nose was held, the way her thighs flexed as she walked. The auburn haired girl, just looking at her was refreshing. She knew that she was something special, someone to be envied, someone to be lusted after and she carried herself that way.

My feet stopped moving and I turned on my heels to look after her. I didn't realize that I had been staring until later that day. In that small space of time it didn't really matter to me. My head was far too muddled to think straight and I nearly broke the pencil which had been clutched in my hand.

At that time, I didn't know her name, I only knew her face and that had been enough.

Our first encounter. Nothing too special.

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**Authors Note: I think in the next chapter I'm going to have them talk. It will be a bit awkward and Hilly will be rude. But what else would you expect from her?**

**Review, please?**


	3. Since I First Met You

Our college was built on the ruin of an old fort. A site which had been constructed in the midst of war, never to be used. It rested near an ocean and a bustling port town wasn't too long of a walk away. The place was beautiful, everybody knew it. Tourists frequented the campus, snapping shots of the lighthouse (which wasn't but a three minute walk from my dorm) and ogling at the seabirds and relentless ocean. It was the kind of place from which artists drew inspiration. The water; how obsolete, how desolate, how sad, how intriguing.

It wasn't but the first day in that I caught the creative bug. My fingers itched to write and with my book bag slung around my shoulder (the weight making my back ache) I set off to find an area.

After a good amount of time spent prodding around campus, looking into small nooks and scouring the shore side, I found it, the perfect spot. There was an area where the beach curved slightly. Jagged rocks decorated the stretch of land and I didn't think anybody would be fool enough to brave the treacherous path. It was my spot, my own. I thought it was, at least. Nobody could see me there, surrounded by boulders. I parked myself on a rock which dug into by back and scratched the my thighs. It wasn't too comfortable, but for the sake of being creative, inventive, different, I settled.

Carefully, I placed my bag down and watched it for a moment to confirm it's stability. When it looked securely in place, I hooked my fingers inside, pulled the leather clasps free, and opened it up. Biting my tongue, I fished through the contents. The pads of my fingers skimmed against the surface of my books and other various items. I felt them brush against the exterior of my pen and after making sure to grab the ink bottle and writing pad, I pulled everything free and placed them delicately in my lap. Not really caring about appearances, I unscrewed the ink and watched as the darkness stained my fingers. The mark of a true writer. I dabbed the tip of the pen in and set the small bottle to the side. I could feel my brows knit together as I opened the pad to a fresh page. Lightly, my fingers dance against the surface, smudging it slightly.

Not really in the mood to start, I retrieved my cigarettes which were at the bottom of my bag and lit the end with some cheap matches that I had bummed from a boy earlier. Greedily, I sucked in a lungful. It was habitual, but I held the smoke in, as if I was sucking a joint and let it escape from my nose. I had rolled the tobacco myself back in my dorm. It was packed full and would last a while, giving me time to relax and think a bit.

Roughly, I pressed the tip of my pen against the page and scribbled down a few words. After a moment, I realized that what I had written was just a sad excuse to fill the page, so I messily scratched it out. Inspiration needed to be drawn from something. One couldn't just sit down and expect to wind together an intricate masterpiece.

Lost in my thoughts, I only barely heard the pebbles rocking, scratching, grinding together as somebody moved against them. Brushing it off as a curious animal, most likely a gull, I kept my head down and book open. But I heard her voice, soft and delicate, beautiful and sad, strong and sure, like a violin.

"_What are you doing here all alone?_"

Swallowing thickly, I looked up and found my heart racing. I stared dumbly at her for a moment, words were apparently lost. I pushed my glasses into place and tore my gaze away, too embarrassed to properly look at her.'

"**I came here to, uh, to write. I thought that this spot was secluded enough that nobody would bother me. Guess I was wrong**," I said and winced at the sound of my own voice. So dull and goofy.

I didn't dare to look, but I felt her presence and tensed slightly as she drew closer to me. Everything was so wrong. Girls were not supposed to feel this giddy over the company of another female. It was written in the Bible somewhere, not that it mattered.

She sat next to me and our sides brushed ever so slightly. I found myself crookedly smiling as I reached for my pack of rolled smokes and wordlessly offered one to her. Without thanking me, she reached over, plucked one out and grabbed for the matches which rested in my lap, on top of my paper. I turned my head slightly to the side to watch her light it. A chuckle fell from my lips as her fingers fumbled slightly, struggling to hit the tip just the right way. Thinking it too forward to offer my help, I just let the scene play out. She cursed under her breath until she finally lit the cigarette.

"**That was all very graceful of you. Maybe you should take up cigarette lighting as some sort of profession**," I muttered and let my eyes wander to the ocean. "**You could be that girl that caters to rich white folk and light the ends of their smokes as the enter fancy restaurants, or the theatre**."

The wind blew a certain way and her flaming locks, which were down, tickled against my arm. Her head was leaned a bit to the side and I couldn't properly see her face. I was left to helplessly swallow and try to steer my thoughts away from brushing those strands of hair behind her ear.

"_Well, that sounds highly unappealing_," she mused and I laughed for no reason in particular.

"**What does sound like an appealing job, then**?"

"_I don't really know… I always thought that I would be a swell dictator._"

She laughed at herself and it caused a nervous fit of giggles to tumble from my own lips.

Not really knowing how to behave, I busied my hands and brushed them against my arms. Mistakenly, I looked over and noticed that her dress was hiked up to her waist, a result from the way she was sitting. I opened my mouth to comment, but thought better of it. She didn't need to know that I was looking at her in such a manner. It would either come off sounding perverted, or like I was scolding her. I didn't want to leave a motherly first impression, or make her think I was some sort of creep. So, mum was the word.

"**So, do you have a name**?" I asked and brushed the end of my cigarette against my lips, not really wanting to take another drag yet. Do you have a name? Lord, did that sound cheesy. I was reminding myself of one of those narcissistic men that hit on women at bars, or perhaps I was just over thinking everything.

"_I do have a name. It's Hillary, but everybody calls me Hilly._" She flicked the end of her cigarette and the ashes blew towards the ocean, lifted by the wind and scattering in the air as they moved.

I nodded at this and murmured, "**Skeeter.**"

"_Skeeter is your name? How queer. Doesn't really seem suitable for a young lady._"

Thinking for a moment, I took in another lungful of smoke. "**Eugenia is my real name, but nobody calls me that. Skeeter has been my nickname ever since I can remember. A blessing from my brother that stuck.**" I shrugged my shoulders slightly. "**You can call me whatever the hell you want, though.**"

That laugh poured from her lips again, like rich water, spouting from a fountain. "_Well, Miss Skeeter, I'll have to take you up on that offer. But for now, I will bid adieu and leave you to your writing. After all, it seems that I interrupted something._" She motioned towards the blank page and I could feel my cheeks flush.

"_I live in the dormitory here. My room number is 207. Scribble that down somewhere and come meet me sometime. I'm new at this school, starved for friends and I like to knit my way into everything. The only way I can do that is if I know everyone. And you, darlin', are number one on my list._" She turned away and her hair blew with the breeze beautifully. The light of the sun caught the deep colored locks and I stared in awe as she walked away, disappearing around the corner where the beach curved.

Before I had a chance to forget, I wrote down her room and stared at the numbers like some lovesick fool.

"**Hillary**." I said her name out loud just to taste it on my tongue.

She left me to my thoughts and within the hour I had written a beautiful poem about unrequited love.

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**Authors Note: So there is the first real encounter. I really don't know how to plan out the events of their meetings, so I'll just keep writing. Nothing about this story is really planned. I don't want to rush things between them. It needs to be slow and awkward. Let me know your thoughts, readers.**


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